


Lupin Triumphant

by accio_arse



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Betrayal, Bondage, Canon-Typical Violence, Consent Issues, Dark, Dubious Consent, M/M, Non Consensual, Redemption, Spying, Violence, Werewolves
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-01-18
Updated: 2012-01-17
Packaged: 2017-10-29 17:47:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 2
Words: 15,952
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/322505
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/accio_arse/pseuds/accio_arse
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Request for slashfest 2006:</p><p>Voldemort/Lupin. Voldemort rewards his best spy. Just before Final Battle. Lucius IS NOT amused! BD - Dom!Lupin and sub!Voldemort; voyeur - LM. Nagini plays a role, either as participant or director.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [bonfoi](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=bonfoi).



> Thanks - To my incredible betas dartmouthtongue, schemingreader and snegurochka_lee (in alphabetical order) who each added so much coherence and bite to this story in their own amazingly talented ways. All the idiocies that remain are mine.

There’s a party of pain going on behind my skull. It’s the kind of inconsiderate, noisy party that’s still drunkenly singing at three in the morning when all sensible wizards have gone to their beds. If I had brain neighbours they’d be complaining.

Suddenly, there’s a cool pressure on my forehead.

I crack one eyelid open. Even my eyeball hurts. The sallow face of Severus Snape looms up towards me in the unsteady candlelight. He stares intently with dark, unblinking eyes. I notice that the top buttons of his robe have been ripped away. The candlelight picks up stray threads dangling down from the torn fabric.

“Come on, Remus,” he whispers hoarsely. “Stop trying to scare me. We don’t have time for this.”

The hand that was on my forehead moves gently to the side of my face. I don’t know why, but I have the urge to lean right into those fingers. I restrain myself.

“Are you all right?” he asks.

I consider this. “I think so.”

Severus’ thin shoulders rise and fall abruptly as he draws in a breath. He removes his hand and looks away.

“Remus, I never meant for this to happen.”

What did I miss? Something just happened? A tangle of fuzzy memories rushes into my head. One leaps to the foreground – it’s Severus, tapping at his long-fingered hand with his wand. A puddle of oil appears in the hollowed palm, and he looks towards me with nervous anticipation. There’s something wrong, though - the longer I try to pin down the memory, the more it starts to bleach out, like a Wizarding photograph left to fade in the sun.

Severus grips me by the shoulders. “Listen to me, Remus. It’s very important. You have to remember this. It has to be today.”

I stare blankly.

“Remus, you have to go to the Dark Lord and it has to be done today.” He’s staring into my eyes again. As he leans in, his thin mouth tightens and his dark eyebrows knit together. “Do you understand? You must go to see the Dark Lord.”

“Huh?” I’m groggy and confused, to say the least. “Why?”

He rises sharply from the bed and starts to pace the room, shadowed in the half-light of early dawn. Some kind of tension cuts free from his thin, hunched shoulders and he spins around, losing control with a snap. His black robes whirl.

“Stop asking me these questions!” he cries. He sounds as if he’s in pain. “Don’t you think I’d tell you if I could? _Why don’t you JUST DO AS YOU’RE TOLD! THE DARK LORD! JUST GO TO SEE THE DARK LORD!_ ”

This situation is becoming more and more surreal. Okay, I get the message. Later on, I have to pop out to see Lord Voldemort. I expect he’ll serve me afternoon tea and crumpets. Then we’ll do a happy little dance together, and perhaps all the rest of the werewolves will join in for the encore.

A first glimmer of sun starts to creep in through the window. Severus rakes his hair back from his temple, his silhouette noticeably shaking.

I start to sit up, but before my elbows have even taken the strain, he’s back beside me on the bed. There’s something in his eyes this time; a sincerity or a sadness. I can’t help it, as I look into them a tension I didn’t even know I was holding deep inside me twists free with a tiny kick. All of a sudden, I would trust him with my life. He grabs me by the shoulders again.

”Don’t make it easy for him. He’ll try Legilimency, so avoid looking directly into his eyes. Hold out for as long as you can. Promise me that.”

I nod, promising, reaching up to cover his hands with mine. He breaks away from me before I can touch him.

“Professor McGonagall!” he calls out into the darkness.

Minerva instantly appears. The abrupt pop of displaced air from her apparition rings out loud and near in the early morning silence. I recognise the floor-length tartan dressing gown and fluffy slippers from my teaching year at Hogwarts, when the occasional night-time student infractions used to rouse her from bed, sleepy and fearsomely bad-tempered. Startled, I grab a blanket and try to cover myself with it. I suddenly realise that I’m the only one here who’s naked, and more importantly, the only one not holding a wand.

“I’m sorry, Remus,” she says. The sympathy almost cracks her voice.

They’re both aiming wands at me. What’s going on?

A bright flash of blue hits my eyes and explodes all over the back of my skull.

Then…

My head is aching all over. From eyebrows to ears and back again it thumps with a dull, steady rhythm. Urgh. Why does my mouth feel like I’ve eaten a whole live chicken, feathers and all? I flop from side to side. Somebody’s shaking me by the shoulders. Arrgh. Go away. Sod off.

“Sir, Sir, wake up. You told me to wake you three hours after sunrise,” a female voice is saying, far above me.

That’s right, I did.

“Uhh… I’m awake now. Thanks, Griselda, you can go.” My lieutenant’s footsteps recede.

It’s all coming back now, as I drag my leaden legs over the edge of the bed, the tendons around the ankles cracking as I reach the floor. My mind begins to buzz as I remember everything that needs to be done. There’s a very important meeting in just a few hours that I need to prepare for thoroughly.

Today is the day that I finally get to meet Lord Voldemort. Oh yes. I’ve been looking forward to this for such a long time.

**********

 _~a large, magically hidden mansion, somewhere in England~_

As I was remarking to my wife Narcissa only yesterday, I hadn’t expected life on the run to be so drearily, arse-clenchingly dull.

Dangerous - now that I would have allowed. Chock-full of nail-biting, last minute flights from hordes of angry Aurors, well that would have been conceivable (and as a figure of speech that has always mystified me – who actually bites their nails, even in extremis?) But that the reality of life as an fugitive from Azkaban could be so incredibly, stultifyingly tedious? I wouldn’t have believed it if you had shown it to me in your balls of crystal.

 _You_ just draw up a list of those you’d pay good Galleons to see wandering about _en deshabille_ first thing in the morning, and I can assure you that Alecto Carrow or Peter Pettigrew would not be anyone’s choice when it comes to naked flashings of pubis. And that’s not the worst of it by any means; there’s also the inappropriate releases of bodily odours, hearty groinal scratchings and frank discussions of prior bowel movements, _but really, I mean to say_ – and that’s just courtesy of our darling Bella, in the early morning queue for the bathroom.

Ah yes, Bella. Under ‘skin-blistering annoyances attendant on living at Death Eater Central’, my dear sister-in-law deserves a whole category to herself. All in all, she was probably the main reason why I had finally grown incredibly _bored_ by the monotony of the whole damned thing and had decided to take some relief in vigorously spearing her husband in the downstairs cloak closet.

It was all so enjoyably delicious to start with. I had slapped Rodolphus down over a pile of dusty cardboard boxes and hoisted up his robe. At that stage, as I prised my slickened fingers inside him and had a good rummage, I was almost willing Bella to come in and find us. _See what I’m doing to your precious husband, Bella. Take a good look._

My lit wand, wedged into a cloak pocket hanging nearby, highlighted the dancing dust motes dislodged by our frenetic activity. One speck of dust landed near Rodolphus’ delicate little nose. As he sneezed like a thunderbolt, the clench of his sphincter muscles nearly took my fingers clean off. Merlin’s scrote, what does the man do in his spare time – keep his arse in shape by crushing walnuts internally? Ah well, I thought, as I took aim and shoved in. A tight hole is better than a slack one, any day.

A few minutes of half-hearted prodding later, however, and little Lucius was beginning to whine, gripe and show a distinct slackening of interest. The truth was, the thrill of irritating Bella aside, Rodolphus didn’t have quite the qualities I look for, even in a quick screw. Every thrust took me closer to the mangy crop of hair he appeared to have been cultivating on his back in captivity (well, I suppose everyone has to have a hobby) and he really was making the most off-putting noises from somewhere near his mouth – a sort of rhythmic wet sloppy gurgling. I was going to be here forever at this rate.

I closed my eyes and tried to remember the last time My Master had let me touch him. From a distance the Dark Lord’s skin looks chalky, dull - cold even, but I’ve been close enough to tap the power thrumming through his pores. I’ve kissed that bleach white neck and felt the jolt of pure magic enter in through my parted lips, twisting through my shivering nerve endings and dazzling me right to the end of my extremities, pulsing white heat out from the end of my prick.

I’ve been gripped in the beam of those glowing, red-irised slits. He once held my face a mere breath from his, each hand a burning whisper, and those eyes drew out my deepest aches like a sponge draws fresh blood.

At the thought of it, the skin behind my balls prickled and clenched, the blood thumping back into little Lucius again. I looked down to watch myself disappearing into Rodolphus and imagined I was driving between the thin white buttocks of my Master. The thought that my Lord would ever let me pierce him made my cock sing with renewed arousal as it slid back and forth, rubbing against the walls of Rodolphus’ anus.

Perhaps everyone else would be watching – yes, the less favoured would be standing around in an envious circle, teeth audibly gnashing. Then My Lord would twist back over one pale shoulder and suddenly snake his long, pointed tongue towards me. I would bend, reverently, to receive it in my mouth. The tingle of its fork would caress at the fleshy edge of my lips, then force itself inside my mouth, insistent, surprisingly hot, searching out every crevice. The oily vibrations would start to seep and the sparks of static build-up would escape my lips, excess magic dripping off my chin, ready for the rapid injection of his potency straight down my willing throat.

 _Oh yes, I can feel it gathering now._ Everyone will bear witness when the Dark Lord smears me with the juices of his favour. Bella will fume helplessly when she watches me strain and shoot my intimate fluids into our Master. _It’s so close now – I’m about to tip the edge._ And with that, the pressure under my balls finally releases like a flood of pure silver lightning and I thrust and spasm and shudder… until my last few drops spurt into Rodolphus’ convenient hole.

 _Absolutely bloody exquisite._

I come to and assess the situation; the need to extricate myself from the hirsute, sweaty mound of flesh and escape this rank, stifling cupboard. Unfortunately, the jerking jiggling of my accomplice is making that slightly difficult, as Rodolphus continues to make use of his good right hand to finish himself off. One might take that as a sign that I wasn’t any more to his taste than he was to mine.

A sound cuts through the air – like a rubber band being tightly snapped - and I feel a distinctive skin-fizzling twang as something attempts to breach the magical wards around the house. Then, to cap it all off, the front door bell rings.

 _Excrement._ The pair of us are supposed to be on guard duty.

“I’ll go,” I say, managing to jimmy myself free, and clean myself up with our sole source of light. Persistent sounds of wank-slappity linger on in the fetid darkness.

“Almost there…” half-grunts my companion.

 _Really._ How tawdry and repellent can one wizard be? Remind me again why I had ever thought that touching that squalid flesh was a good idea. I must truly have been bored witless. I exit as swiftly as possible, gratefully drinking in the fresh air from the very first crack of door-light.

I spy through the brass eyehole in the front door. When I see who’s waiting, I am rather taken aback for a moment. There on the damp stone steps of our house-in-hiding stands Fenrir Greyback, chief flea-picker of the Dark Lord’s company of child-biting, marrow-sucking, Muggle-crunching werewolves, and… wait for it… _Professor R J Lupin._ Yes, I told you; I was pretty surprised as well.

Not that he is a Professor any longer, of course. In fact, the last I’d heard of him had been the enjoyably salacious description of his defrocking, as told by the Daily Prophet –

 _“Nasty befanged werewolf teaching ickle helpless Hogwarts kiddies no more”_

…or something like that, with a particularly gormless-looking picture of Lupin ‘before’ and an artist’s impression of him ‘after’ as the hairy-arsed, gore-slabbering, baby-munching werewolf. Draco showed me the article in fits of glee.

But there’s something rather peculiar going on between them. The soiled mountain of brawn and hair that is Fenrir Greyback is actually _cowering_. It’s most uncharacteristic and rather entertaining to observe, and it only becomes more pronounced after Lupin throws him the merest of casual glances. The other werewolf positively _flinches_. Greyback almost shrinks right into the filthily splattered and gouged robe that’s straining across his huge shoulders. How very curious.

When I throw open the front door, Fenrir recoils a whole step backwards, although when he sees it’s just me his ugly features snap back into the familiar scowl which I recognise as his form of greeting. _Yes, hello to you too._ Lupin simply stands there, placid and immobile. I feel a prickle of irritation.

“Yes, _Professor_ Lupin?”

“I’m here to see the Dark Lord,” he states.

His eyes meet mine. There’s no challenge or heat in them, just the steady assumption that I will comply.

“Oh, really?” I drawl, starting to imperceptibly cheer up. There’s nothing like some idiot-baiting for putting me in a good mood. This should be fun.

“I’ll have to check his diary. I wasn’t aware that our Master had an appointment today with any destitute half-breeds. Or perhaps you’re looking for employment? I must say that your prior record speaks against you, _Professor._ I also _hate_ to mention it, but there happen to be some basic standards of personal hygiene required...”

I have to be careful about pursuing that line; our friend Fenrir isn’t exactly an oil painting. I content myself with a general wand-wave around Lupin’s snarl of unkempt hair. It looks as though he has tried to comb it with a twig, and the twig obviously had the best out of that encounter. His robes aren’t much better, terribly patched and worn, and apparently grave-robbed from somebody’s Flobberworm-loving great-grandfather. But then again, Fenrir’s clothes always look like he’s gone a full twenty rounds with a bag of angry crups, so I generously decide not to mention the attire.

However, all my ingenious insults are to no avail. Lupin stares blandly at me with the vacuous insipidity of the truly imbecilic, and no entertainment is forthcoming. Instead, he turns to Greyback, as if prompting him, and the bewhiskered colossus raises his raspy voice in mumble for the first time, grimacing as if each word is ripped straight from his heart.

“Our Master will wish to meet with the new head of the werewolf pack.”

I catch myself doing an absurd double take between the raw-boned, muscular Greyback and the weary-looking sliver of a man standing beside him, but I manage to stop myself before anyone notices. What in Merlin’s arsehole is Fenrir playing at? Well, if he wants to fool around with the Dark Lord’s affections, who am I to stop him? It might even be fun to watch – from a safe distance.

Frankly, I don’t know why the Dark Lord even bothers with the werewolves - it’s not as though they’re an important part of His army. They’re mostly just mud-bloods and half-blood riff-raff who wouldn’t know the right end of a wand if it turned around and bit them - pun intended. So what if a couple of times a month they all turn into drooling beasts? Yawn, yawn. Do they really think by some twist of fate the final battle will take place at night, precisely on the full moon? Now, really - what are the chances of that happening?

Rodolphus emerges, dishevelled, from the understairs cupboard, just in time to help me search for wands and escort our two guests up to Our Master’s suite. By this stage a little crowd of gawkers has formed, pathetically grateful of any break from their claustrophobia, mouths hanging open as they mutter and point. I’m almost willing our lot to restrain themselves. In the name of Cagliostro’s comecream, show a _little_ dignity. _Please_ don’t check the interlopers for webbed fingers or retractable genitals, or any other sign that they come from the strange outside world. We’ve all been cooped up in here together for far too long.

I knock at the lavishly panelled door.

“It’s Lucius, My Lord.”

“Enter,” comes the reply, low yet simultaneously sibilant. The hairs at the nape of my neck immediately spring into shivers, run all the way down my back, and tuck themselves under my tailbone; a quite normal reaction to the voice of My Master.

I halt at the doorway. Oh, bliss; My Master is still dressing. His long white legs, smooth and perfect, are bare to my view, and I steal a brief glimpse of his prick, delicately flushed and resting above dangling, hairless plums. Then he sweeps his robe closed and fastens it firmly on one side.

“Yes, Lucius?” His dancing red eyes only inflame the blood rushing towards my face, and to certain other areas as well. I’m sure he knows exactly what he does to me, but I never seem to care enough to try to break his spell. However, I still retain enough just sense at the moment for some self-preservation.

“My Lord, Fenrir has arrived – he says that he is no longer in command of the werewolves. He’s brought the new pack leader with him to meet you…”

An excellent moment, I believe, to withdraw speedily – which I do, being no fool. I gracefully make way for our two dishevelled visitors.

**********

It’s been going surprisingly well so far. That idiot Lucius Malfoy’s eyes nearly popped out of his head after Fenrir recited his piece at the front door. It was all I could do just to keep a straight face.

Then Malfoy brought us straight up to Voldemort’s bedroom, of all places. It really was as simple as that. A quick snap to their master’s neck – that might be all it would take… but no. I’m fooling myself when I start thinking like that. I’ve gotten far too used to having my own way recently. I need to watch out for it.

This inbred herd may be skulking around us now as if they’ve only just invented staring and pointing, but every one of them has almost certainly murdered and tortured, repeatedly, and probably enjoyed it too. That doesn’t impress me like it used to, but it should. I must stay focused.

Malfoy halts before an absurdly ornate door and opens it. It’s so out of keeping with the rest of the house that it’s obviously been transfigured just in order to flatter Voldemort’s famously warped sense of self-importance. Malfoy’s smoothly silver head nods as he speaks to his master through the doorcrack. I notice a brief shiver down the length of his back – is that fear? It’s just another reminder of how seriously I should be taking this meeting. I really should.

Fenrir’s shoulders brushed mine when we climbed the stairs - just the most trivial of touches, but a burst of distracting triumph forced its way up inside me as he instinctively cringed away. Recently, he’s become scared that I might even catch him _looking_ in my direction.

After all these years, I can still hardly believe that I’ve managed to tame my nightmare. In the end, all it took was the will to make the decision – the determination that _yes I would_ slam him against the wall, I _would_ dangle him by the ankles and kick those sharp jagged teeth in, that I _would_ dance flames over his body until grey hairs sizzled into his flesh and he begged for mercy. After he healed, I just started all over again. We werewolves heal so conveniently, if painfully.

This is dangerous. Why am I being so ridiculously casual about meeting Voldemort? If I don’t acquire some healthy fear, and fast, it’ll be my pack who’s looking for a new leader. A few surprise bursts of wandless magic and simple psychological tricks won’t get me anywhere with He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named.

Malfoy bows low and slips nervously to one side and the preposterously gilded bedroom door finally swings wide open. So here I am, face to face with Lord Voldemort.

He’s… shorter than I’d expected. Shorter than Fenrir, at least, and I got the better of him. _I must stop thinking like that._

Everything is dazzlingly bright. Long banners waft breezelessly from the walls, glowing from within with a radiance that illuminates the whole room. Even the air somehow smells of light; clean and pure. On a large, raised platform rests a carved golden bedstead, covered with pristine white linen.

His flowing, semi-transparent robe is white, and it’s cut low into a V at the front, revealing the palest shade of all – the ivory smooth skin of Lord Voldemort. I catch myself staring, fascinated, my eyes following that glowing skin up his neck, nearly to his face, except that something then stops me before I can reach his eyes – I don’t know what. I notice that other parts of him are also… visible through his sheer robe. I avert my eyes respectfully towards the floor and wait for Greyback to introduce me.

“My Lord,” Fenrir grovels, almost buckling at the knees.

“I want to hear it from your own lips, Fenrir,” hisses Voldemort, travelling the distance between us surprisingly quickly. He extends one bony finger under Fenrir’s bristly chin, tilting it roughly up. “You’ve lost control of the werewolves - how can this be?”

“Yes, my Lord!” quavers Fenrir. His heavy-boned face strains up, away from the slender finger. “But I brought the new leader with me! He wishes to serve you!”

I take a small step forward.

“My Lord,” I say, bowing my head.

I can feel Voldemort’s gaze sweeping my body from head to toe, searching for a key to this unexpected turn of events. Suddenly, although nothing in his behaviour is openly threatening, I find that I’m not having to remind myself to be afraid any more. My skin is crawling and my stomach has wrapped itself into a liquid knot which only increases with every step he takes closer. It’s as if he’s surrounded by a bubble of protective ghostly hands, invading anyone unfortunate enough to come near.

A tugging jolts my left elbow. Voldemort has discovered my folder.

“What’s this?” he demands.

“My Lord, a list of the new members of our pack,” I explain, trying to keep my voice humble. “In the last few months there has been a dramatic expansion of our company. We now number slightly over four hundred.”

“Four hundred!” He snatches at the folder with spindly, eager fingers and has leafed through several pages before looking up suspiciously. “Fenrir, explain yourself!”

“My Lord, the changes were made under my management,” I reply. No curses or hexes hurtle my way, so I take that as permission to continue. “We organised full moon travel rotas, so that all attacks are now delivered efficiently right into population clusters. That has met with great success, but our biggest achievement to date has been in the field of intra-moon biting. We discovered a charm that temporarily triggers the change on demand. You can see the results in the figures before you – we’ve exceeded all of our bite quotas for the last three moons running.”

Voldemort looks up quickly. “You can change when there is no full moon?”

“Yes, My Lord,” I reply.

I can tell he is impressed. He should be. It’s been difficult, and definitely not what I would have chosen in an ideal world, but under my management the pack is finally strong enough to stand up for itself - and that leads on to what I’m here for.

“My Lord, as you are aware, at the moment werewolves have limited rights under Wizarding Law…”

He immediately cuts me off with a furious glance.

“ _What?_ What are you talking about? _Silence_!” he hisses, returning to stare at my information with a strangely blank ferocity.

His bony fingers grip the parchment fiercely until it crackles and becomes opaque under the tension. His half-closed eyes shoot red light as they dart frantic little glances from one side to another. I can clearly hear his breathing, rattling and uneven. Just for an instant he reminds me of a cornered rabbit, desperately searching for an escape route – and I have to remind myself that this is Lord Voldemort, not some timid woodland creature caught in the path of the pack.

Then he changes, as dramatically as the first ray of sunlight after a storm.

“Fenrir - fetch Lucius to me _at once_ ,” he purrs, tilting his head upon one side. His red eyes glow from under slyly half-lowered eyelids. I immediately bend my head again meekly, unsure of how to handle these bizarre mood swings.

Fenrir quickly backs out of the bedroom. He stumbles a few times in his haste to be gone and has to catch at his balance in order to remain upright.

Then, in a flash, Voldemort has my right forearm in his grip, the whorls of his knuckles straining as he forces the pressure. Unpleasant prickles run up my arm and grow into itches at the top of my neck.

“So nice to finally be alone with you,” he whispers into my ear. “We have so much to discuss. Come sit down beside me. Weren’t you saying something a moment ago?”

He guides me forcibly to his bed where we sit next to each other on the pure and unblemished white sheets. The hundreds of ghostly hands I felt flailing at me before, twisting my stomach into knots, have become gentle, soothing fingers which stroke me all over, bathing me with his proximity.

This enforced closeness makes me all too aware of how inhuman Voldemort really is, and especially of his lack of a nose. At every breath, his two slanting slits open and close like gaping gills. Just inside each nostril, a sheer feathery curtain undulates every time the air changes direction. It’s very hard not to stare.

He has pressed our legs together all the way from hip to knee. I try to tactfully shift some distance between us, but our thighs are glued tightly together. I’m consciously not looking down at where they touch, at the pale flesh under his flimsy robe. Heat and friction start to build up between us.

“My Lord, you have been so generous towards the werewolves in the past.”

Not even slightly true, but from what I’ve heard, he likes his flattery thick and plentiful. One of his unnaturally emaciated hands starts to wander towards the direction of my inner knee.

“We only want to repay your kindness, My Lord. Now that we are stronger than ever we can be of more use to you.”

“Yes, I do want to know _exactly_ how strong you are. How clever of you to remind me.” His reptilian eyes narrow in thought.

“Ah, Lucius!” Malfoy appears at the doorway, gasping, having run all the way upstairs.

“Lucius - I need you to sexually stimulate this werewolf for me. You may use your mouth.”

This time I definitely do manage to break free from his burning outer thigh, because I’ve fallen half-way back across the bed in my surprise. Malfoy’s face has also dropped as hard as a brick - so this must not be a common request, even from Lord Voldemort. I’d heard that Death Eaters got strange kicks from murder and torture, but their reputation for sucking off Dark Creatures had escaped me.

“My Lord, I’m grateful, but it’s really not necessary…” I protest, but he silences me with a burning look.

“Consider it a small reward for your services so far,” he soothes, sliding claw-like fingertips across my sprawling left ankle.

Malfoy has yet to move an inch.

”Well, Lucius? Get on with it,” snarls Voldemort, his voice rising dangerously in pitch. The light in the room flickers with his mounting displeasure.

Malfoy walks slowly over to the bed. Each stride is made reluctantly, almost against his will. He won’t look me in the face, but I have plenty of time to note how he’s wincing and how the muscles around his mouth are set into a rictus of disgust. As he fastidiously pushes up my robe, I’m suddenly ashamed of how dirty and beaten up my clothes are, and of my scrawny, hairy legs. Most of all I’m shocked to be lying here, stripped to the waist, under the fascinated gaze of Lord Voldemort, waiting for Lucius Malfoy to put his unenthusiastic mouth on my genitals. How did this happen? A few hours ago I was safely with my pack, initialling the transport rotas from my lieutenants and planning our latest bite targets, relishing this meeting, so confident in my plan.

Malfoy brings his lips down onto my penis, just brushing the skin. It feels soft and ticklish and very far away. It’s as if all this is happening to somebody else.

“Stop dithering, Lucius! Hold the thing firmly!” commands Voldemort, peevishly. “I need to see that the werewolf’s equipment functions adequately if I’m to cast _Servitium Strenuus._ ”

**********

 _No_!

How could My Master possibly be contemplating doing _that_ with _this!_ … this stinksome, half-race, leg-humping _monster_.

Extremely reluctantly, I lower my head, grab the limp appendage and, wincing, place my mouth around it. Urgh - the distinct tang of rancid knob-cheese. I might have guessed.

My Master hovers over us, one delicate hand splayed across Lupin’s filthy shoulder and the other slowly beginning to caress his own neck, drawing aside the light robe with his fingertips to make tiny circles on his tightly stretched skin. I draw in one last breath for courage, purse my lips and suck down the prick.

It’s gelatinous and wobbly in my mouth, the head resolutely hiding away inside its impenetrable foreskin.

Marvellous. Is this filthy, soap-dodging werewolf actually going to get hard at some point? What’s more to the point, am I going to get the blame if he doesn’t?

I start to use my tongue, making broad sweeps round and around. Still no response. A growing dread starts rise up inside me. Oh no. I won’t be forced to stimulate those hideously furry bollocks, will I? I think the creature’s a downstairs _ginger_ , for Merlin’s sake!

After a few minutes, and some increasingly nervous improvisation on my part, the first definite pulse shudders through the organ and, yes - it’s starting to expand in my mouth. It’s becoming bigger, heavier, thicker and smoother, the long muscle underneath and through it twitching and stiffening.

I change tactics, wrapping my moistened lips around my teeth and sucking deep, building up rhythm, taking it right to the root. The damn werewolf is definitely responding now. He’s careful not to let out any groan that might show he might _conceivably_ be appreciating my hard-wrung efforts, but there’s air panting out of werewolf lungs right above my head and his hips buck up to meet my mouth, although he clamps down on _that_ motion as soon as he realises what he’s doing. Stupid beast. Why doesn’t he just let himself enjoy it? He really has no idea at all what’s ahead of him.

Still, the monotonous suck and oscillate stage I’ve now reached leaves my mind free for other, more important matters – such as thinking about the safety of my family. I warned Narcissa and Draco to make themselves scarce right after Fenrir dropped his bombshell. Not that there’s anywhere safe to hide in this dreary prison of a house. Not that I’ve ever been able to shelter them from the Dark Lord before. Oh, no. Where it counts, I know exactly how much of a failure I am.

But _Servitium Strenuus_ \- for the Dark Lord to magically bond himself to a werewolf, to make him his greatest servant? Why would he do it? A sudden image flashes before me - the Dark Lord and Lupin, side by side on tall golden thrones, light streaming from behind them, Masters of the Wizarding World. All fear them and all grovel. It’s an easy enough image to conjure up; all I have to do is seat the werewolf where I usually put myself.

“Enjoying yourself, Lucius?” the Dark Lord’s velvety voice strokes along my upturned back. Out of my right eye I can just make out his pale knee on the bed next to us. “Actually, Lucius, I don’t think you’re enjoying yourself _enough_. Let me do something about that.”

Automatically, I thank My Master, but as my mouth is full of stinking prick right now, all I can produce is a slobbery sort of grunt.

My lips may be numbing and my cheeks cramping, but now I’m also tensing with anticipation. Finally, My Master is paying attention to _me_. Perhaps if I please him enough he’ll abandon this _Servitium Strenuus_ nonsense. If he wants to bond with someone, well, why not with me? Killing Muggles is nothing, I’m sucking festering dick for him right now. What more proof does he need? Why can’t he see that I’m so much better for him than any disgusting werewolf?

“Luciusss…” A shiver runs down my spine, fizzling at the delicate skin around my arsehole, reaching for and plucking at my balls.

 _Oh… thank you, My Master. Thank you so much. Oh, please let My Master touch me again. Let him reach out and… Oh, Merlin, how I want him. My Master can’t possibly know how much I want him._

“Luciusss…” A hundred invisible hands lightly knead my buttocks, parting them, ghosting across my inner thighs. The breath of their slipstream teases around my prick, free and dangling underneath my robe. The hands catch it between their fingers and immediately hot, thumping blood rushes in. As my prick swells and flushes, my whole body runs hot and cold.

I’ve let my tempo slacken under the distraction.

“ _Lucius! Keep to your task!_ ” my Lord reprimands me with a bark.

Stretching my aching mouth, I plunge my head down again recklessly, wanting to show My Lord how obedient I can be. The werewolf’s slimy prick hits the back of my throat – he’s not even pretending to keep still now, forcing himself into me at every opportunity. I drink in his bitter, stringy fluid. I feel it dangling like glue all the way down my throat.

“Luciussss….”

I close my eyes, letting the addictive pleasure wash over me. Everything fades except the overwhelming need for the touch of My Lord. How can he not understand? Doesn’t he know the way I shiver for him every night, as I lie there thinking of cool white skin? I need to tell him. I can’t bear him not knowing.

I’m almost thankful that my mouth is full right now, or else I’m sure that I’d be blurting all this out like the greatest idiot alive. The corners of my eyes sting; tiny acidic tears have sprung up, unbidden.

“Luciussss….”

I feel his fingers tapping and stroking, touching me all over. He loves me, I know he does. Why would he want to give me such pleasure if he didn’t love me? I go down on the werewolf again, with an extra special flourish, just to show My Master how much I care. The Dark Lord’s hundred invisible hands stray downwards again towards my aching prick.

 _Yes please, My Master! Please, yes!_

Their grasp is infuriatingly gentle. My hips roll in frustration, trying to rub myself harder against their ethereal fondling. Then – _ahhh!_ One hand encircles me and starts to pulsate my prick confidently, firmly, methodically, and then…

Huge quantities of acrid spunk shoot out, right against the back of my throat. The werewolf’s flesh spasms inside my mouth for only a brief second before I instinctively hack the organ out of me with a cough, dropping the still-engorged prick with a slap down onto his stomach. I spit what I can clear from my mouth on top of the glistening member. The werewolf continues to puddle sperm, glooping messily onto himself with numerous twitches.

Terrified, I look up at My Master, to see if I should have swallowed.

At the head of the bed, Lupin and My Lord are linked by gaze, staring right into the depths of each other. They don’t even notice me. At first I am relieved, then appalled. I want to rush over and push them apart. Of course, I don’t. I wait, meek as a lamb, for My Master’s instructions.

The Dark Lord lazily breaks away from his communion with Lupin and smiles me a thin-lipped smile. By now I’m convinced that I hate My Lord more than anyone I have ever hated. It’s becoming almost more than I can bear. Every day it’s increasingly painful when I’m out of his presence; dead time, boring, bare and meaningless, and I despise myself for my weakness and stupidity. I should be thinking of my wife and child. I want to feel for them like I used to, to care for them and to protect them. I shouldn’t be willing to give them up if only he would just put his long thin hands on me, just one more time.

Lupin lies in a dazed heap beside the Dark Lord, his eyes slightly overlarge and blank.

“Didn’t you enjoy that, Lucius?”

“Yes, My Lord. Thank you, My Lord.”

“You may wake Nagini now,” my Master says.

**********

 _Avoid looking directly into his eyes. Hold out for as long as you can._

A quiet, serious voice surfaces briefly in my mind, and then wisps away, back into the darkness.

And then I let Lord Voldemort in.

He flicked through the pages of my life as if he were randomly pulling books from a shelf and tearing out all the most interesting pictures.

He saw the heel of my boot as it crunched into Fenrir’s ribs. He delved further. He sensed just how much I triumphed in my victory, how I held myself unnecessarily close to my defeated nightmare, breathing in his blood and his fear and his piss, just because I could. The erection I had then was no sexual reaction; it was pure exaltation.

He was there when Fenrir declared me leader before the whole incredulous and speechless pack. I finished with a few words to them all, quietly, decisively, but inside I was trembling almost uncontrollably, and I knew it wasn’t with fear.

Only in the privacy of my own room did I ever allow that raw rush of thrill to spill out of me.

I used to spread the paperwork all over my bed and wallow in the evidence of what I’d achieved. Even when the pack deferred to me, even when Fenrir cringed and bled, it somehow was never as real as those figures in black ink, the numbers steadily rising every week. I’d rub myself through my robe, at first furtively, then slip a few buttons open to touch myself, crushing the parchments laid under my back. It became my secret little pleasure, a treat to myself after every bite quota management meeting. No-one would ever be able to take this away from me. I’d finally accomplished something with my life, however twisted; something lasting.

One week there were forty three ‘recruitments’ to the pack. I could hardly believe the headcount - I made my lieutenants check three times before I was satisfied. The sense of terrible pride rose up in me like a bubble that desperately needed to be burst. That night, when I reached down to bring myself off, it felt like fulfilment. Now Voldemort has invaded that memory as well.

“You may wake Nagini,” he says.

Lucius’ mouth is shining and his lips are red. He kneels to the side and raps on the dais supporting the bedstead. Beneath us, a long wooden panel slowly creaks and slides. A dusty rattling starts to fill the air. The hiss of fat scales drags along the floor. A snake’s head emerges. It is obscenely large.

“Fetch my milking goblet, Lucius.”

“Yes, My Lord.”

Why is my robe is scrunched up around my armpits? Why is my groin tingling and why is there come all over my stomach? What just happened? Voices and splashes echo faintly in the background as I try to make sense of it all. A brief flash illuminates one corner of the bedroom.

It’s all coming back now. Pale haired Malfoy bending over my crotch, his horrible mouth sucking. Then Voldemort, pinching my chin between bony thumb and forefinger, pulling my face closer… scarcely like being gripped by human fingers at all.

His pale death’s-head face looms towards me once more. He exhales, and a line of filaments flutters inside the line of each nostril. I blink, startled.

“Lucius. I think our esteemed visitor should be made to feel more comfortable, don’t you? Wash and clothe him in preparation for the enchantment.”

A shining gold basin of water appears. Malfoy unbuttons my worn robe and strips me, sponging me all over with pleasantly warm and ticklish water. He’s obviously not happy about it, especially when he arrives at my still-sticky belly. However, he is remarkably thorough, not even skimping places that I would rather he avoided, like under my balls and around my arse. He even begins to pull back my foreskin in order to wash underneath. I squirm and protest, trying to push his hand away, but Voldemort clamps vice-like fingers around my arm, forcing me to submit to the cleansing.

Voldemort steps away from the bed and uncovers an ornately carved wardrobe concealed behind one of the many floating panels of white. He takes out a sheer, diaphanous robe, similar to the one he is wearing, and holds it up.

“Over here.”

I float over and am clothed by him. The fabric brushes me gently. He is so white and pure. I can see the magic shimmering through his skin.

“Drink.”

He holds out a large golden goblet. I take it. A small amount of runny, whitish fluid lies on the bottom, smoke rising in thin hisses from its surface.

“To our friendship!” declares Lord Voldemort. He holds another goblet, made from crystal, high in the air, and drinks the clear contents straight down.

I bring the goblet to my lips in a daze.

As soon as the fluid coats my throat, the magic enters my bloodstream and it’s as if I’m seeing his bedroom clearly for the first time.

All these dangling pieces of fabric! It’s completely ridiculous, like the bedroom of some young, horribly over-indulged teenage witch. As for this _Lord Voldemort_ \- what does he think he _looks_ like, prancing around in see-through nightgowns? Although I have to admit that he’s more attractive than I would have expected. That deep hollow under his jawbone and those thin, bony wrists are doing strange things to me. I can even see the darker, purplish skin of his nipples and genitals right through that transparent stuff.

What am I wearing? Another stupid gown? Right, that’s coming off. I fiddle with the side ties, become impatient, and end up tearing them away from the cloth. They rip audibly. I throw the gown to the floor; now I’m standing naked and decidedly more comfortable.

“My, how _strong_ you are, Mister Werewolf.”

He doesn’t know the half of it.

”My own Mister Werewolf. I’ve seen _exactly_ how strong you are. You’re nothing like that fool Greyback. No, you know that real power is the art of manipulating others into doing all the nasty biting _for_ you.”

I take a step towards him. “Stop that right now.”

“The Great Pack Leader. Every night you sit and count how many victims your fellow beasts have soiled today with their foul werewolf teeth.”

“I said to be quiet.” It’s the same low, assured voice I use when dealing with unruly members of my pack.

“Then, you find that it’s _stimulated_ you so much that you have to run away, undo your filthy robes, fumble inside with your hairy little hand and to have a good w…”

My wandless _Expelliarmus_ blasts him all the way across the room. I’ve got rather good at those recently; all that that practice on Fenrir.

He crashes down; a heap of skeletal limbs. Bright blood is trickling from where an eyebrow would be on anyone else; anyone normal. Its red path just touches the outside corner of one glowing eye.

“Did that feel _good_ , Mister Werewolf?”

I don’t bother answering. What I do or not is none of his concern. As he blinks, the blood catches into his eye. Lifting one hand to touch the blood, the chalk-white skin of his fingertip comes away smeared. He holds his hand out to me, head tilted.

“Don’t you want to taste my blood, werewolf? Don’t you want to smell it? I can tell that you _do_. I can tell that my potion is working very nicely on you indeed.”

With that unearthly speed of his, he’s on his feet and over by my side. He holds his spindly palm wide and outstretched. It’s only the smallest streak of blood on his index finger, but it’s positively luminous. In a flash, those same blood-tinged fingers clasp around my stiffening prick, then instantly release it again.

“Very nicely indeed, werewolf. We should have no trouble t…”

I banish him again, harder. He flies across the room and slams into another large piece of furniture hidden behind those preposterous hanging bedsheets. I yank at one sheet as I pass. It detaches easily and puddles most pleasingly onto the floor. I snatch it up, trailing its long length behind me.

This is almost too simple. I look down at his long angular body huddled on the floor. He’s breathing hard and I’m close enough to see the veins of blue magic throbbing beneath the surface of his chalky white skin, tantalising me, pulling me nearer. He glowers up with those smouldering, slit-irised eyes.

“How long since you’ve actually touched another person’s _skin_ , werewolf? Are you scared you might lose control and _bite_?”

Another burst of wandless magic and he’s dangling by his ankles. His delicate robe quavers, then gravity pulls it inexorably right over his face like a puff of dandelion fluff. It reveals his hairless, slender legs and bare bollocks. They dangle down onto a cadaverous, concave stomach, followed by his pointed, red-tipped prick emerging angrily from its sheath. The shape reminds me uncannily of that of a small mammal.

I want to hold myself close to him, like I did to Fenrir. I want to breathe in the oily murmur of his power as I grind it under my heel. I want to gather up those hairless bollocks in his stupid, flimsy robe and wrench them clean off. I want to spit on his inhuman prick and I want to fuck him through those obscenely slitty nostrils. I want to do it all and yet I do nothing. I just stand there and breathe him in. He glares and wriggles his hips at me.

“Is it because I’m not _Harry Potter_?” he hisses. “I’ve seen the whelp in your memories. Perhaps you think you’re saving yourself for him?”

 _Harry?_ What the fuck does he mean?

“Ah… all those hours together when you were his teacher. The perfect opportunity for grooming him…”

“Shut up! You don’t know anything about it! Shut the fuck up!”

This bastard thinks… _with my students?_ Grooming _Harry Potter?_ With a tight snap of the sheet I’ve been carrying, I stuff his mouth with fabric, muffling his words, and continue on around his head and neck, almost cutting off his air supply. I snatch another thin streamer from the ceiling, pin his bony wrists together and tie them over and over until it looks as if his hands have been bandaged by a Junior Niffler practicing some dodgy First Aid. The bastard just hangs there and lets me. Each time I brush contact with his skin, a jolt of desire thumps towards my groin. With every touch, it’s fiercer, more urgent, more painful.

The fucking bastard.

I release the spell and as he dives to the floor headfirst, I immediately cast another, sending him scudding towards the bed. Well, if I _am_ going to do this, I may as well be comfortable. And it looks as though I am, doesn’t it? Malfoy is still in the room with us, standing and watching, ready at all times like a good little servant. His expression holds a look of pure hatred reserved especially for me, and that just makes me smile. Enjoy the view, Malfoy, because I’m about to fuck your Master.

This time my _Expelliarmus_ only threw Voldemort as far as the foot of the bed. I grab him under his armpits and hoist his bag of bones so that he’s bent face down over the mattress, but as soon as I make contact with his smooth, pulsating skin, my nerve endings jerk alive, beginning from my fingertips and dancing throughout my body. I muffle a groan and push as much of my nakedness as I possibly can onto his skin. My chest rubs his back and my cock nestles into the crevice of his hollow-cheeked arse. The bastard is fucking delicious.

He’s firmly muffled, so he can’t talk his rubbish any more, but I can hear him breathing hard through those disgusting slits.

“Is _this_ what you wanted, My _Lord_?” I ask, drawing one finger around the flushed and puckered skin of his arsehole, poking and prodding. The whole entrance is oily, just like his words; I might have guessed. He squirms under my finger, wriggling the rest of his skeletal body into the mattress, his legs opening further. God help me. The fucker wants it and, yes, I want this chalk-skinned, hairless, slit-nosed bastard.

I hold my cock at his oily entrance and slam my damnest into the depths of his hole.

I’ve been craving his tightness. The ring of muscles around the entrance clasps my cock firmly like a promise, and then releases, clasps, and releases, all the way down, until I’m snug inside, all the while pushing and desperate to grind into him even further. _Got to fuck him. Need to fuck._ A rhythm starts to build up as I push and pull, grasping bony hips, driving him into the bed, the friction so head-spinningly good as it runs up and down my dick.

I feel my balls clench and tighten under me as they get ready to shoot. _No! Not already!_ But this is so fuckingly amazingly incredible! Some kind of commotion is going on outside – or is it just the whirl of sex pounding in my ears? I draw out and plunge in again, relishing every stroke, every blissful time I can feel my prick enveloped again in Voldemort’s body, so hot and so slick. Oh yes. Definitely going to come soon. I can feel it approaching, inevitable and unstoppable and… Oh yes… Here it comes…

 _Arrrgh!_

As my balls deliver and my prick spasms inside Voldemort’s arse, throwing come hard right up inside him. I think my head might just explode from the orgasm shooting silver fireworks inside my brain and hot lightning all down my skin.

Then the bedroom door suddenly slams wide open with a crash. At the head of a group of Order members, it’s Harry Potter.

Harry Potter. And as he takes in my situation, his expression, not surprisingly, is one of complete and utter shock.

**********


	2. Chapter 2

This simply can’t be happening.

My pale and beautiful Master, flung around the room, manhandled and pawed at by that… that…

I simply don’t have the words to describe how absurdly preposterous this situation is. That My Lord would _for one instant_ allow such a creature to lay hands on him. No. I must be having a delusion. If this were real, I wouldn’t be able to tolerate it.

At least the disgusting beast is somewhat cleaner now, although I had to perform that task myself. He’d obviously never _dreamt_ of washing under his foreskin; it explains the rank, cheesy condition of his wedding tackle. How could I have put my mouth anywhere near something so rancid? Urgh. I don’t think I’ll ever be able to purge myself of the memory.

Oh, sweet Merlin’s toenail’s clippings. _The werewolf is now actually penetrating My Master._

But, no – surely not. I _still_ can’t believe that My Master is actually going to go through with it, to let him orgasm, to complete the _Greatest Servant_ spell. No, he can’t. He _won’t_. At the last minute he’ll realise that it’s me, that it’s always been me, that I’m waiting for him here, standing right here.

Perhaps just before the vital moment, he’ll turn around and with one swift slash slice the creature’s balls off. Yes, that would be excellent; a highly pleasing image. The werewolf will shriek like a little girl and dance about with his hand over his groin, spurting blood through his fingers. Then My Lord will turn to me and…

No, damn it, that isn’t any good. I’ll be the one who has to clean all the blood and viscera up afterwards, and My Master never lets me use my wand in here. I’ll have to think of something else…

 _Harry Potter!_

What? From where? How?

 _No!_ My Master! He’s helplessly trapped underneath that filthy werewolf!

No-one’s allowed to harm My Master but me! Don’t they know that he’s mine, mine alone?

Without thinking, I dive towards My Lord.

Before I ever reach him, a crushing green light blasts into me with the force of all possible agony, and I clench into myself, hitting the ground screaming. _Narcissa? Draco?_ Where are they? Are they safe? But it’s all too late, far too late. The greenness is filling me completely and I’m falling, falling, falling…

**********

A single shaft of orange light cuts through the leaves and comes to rest on the toe of my boot. The sun is setting behind the trees; the day is nearly done. I’ve come to treasure quiet moments like these.

Soon I will have to rejoin the rest of the pack for the evening meal. As soon as I look at the hundreds of faces and remember what I did to them, the lives I’ve ruined, the black guilt will grip into my shoulders once more and settle down into another long, sleepless night. Sometimes I just want to run away from it all, but if it takes the rest of my life, I know that I have to atone for every single individual that I have damaged.

During the war, I was such a good little soldier. I must have been, because every day I unearth more proof of my callousness in stark black and white – the timetables of our planned attacks, the names and dates of our victims, my signature at the bottom of every page. I wish I could burn it all away.

Then Severus Snape appears from behind a massive oak tree, bearing gifts.

He clears his throat nervously, unsure as to his reception. I don’t enlighten him. Why should I? It’s not as if the whole Wizarding World is exactly greeting me with open arms these days. I can’t say I blame them.

“What’s that?” I point at his laden bags.

“Wolfsbane,” he replies, taking a few cautious steps forward. “Lots of Wolfsbane.”

“Ah.”

The Ministry has guaranteed Wolfsbane for every werewolf in Britain, along with a host of other concessions, as part of the terms we negotiated after Voldemort’s defeat. It’s why so much of my days are spent in paperwork; the Ministry does nothing without a form in triplicate.

“And this.” Remaining at a distance, he removes a wide, shallow basin from one of the bags. “Something was stolen from you. I think now’s the right time to give it back.”

He gently sets the Pensieve down, crunching trapped autumn leaves underneath its base. A heavy silver fluid is poured in, coming to rest in a thin layer at the base of the curve, waiting for a memory to follow.

He looks up at me from where he’s kneeling on the forest floor. The edges of his black hair catch a brief burst of golden sunlight as the evening wind flickers through the trees.

He begins to speak again. “I heard what happened to you outside the Ministry…”

Before I can stop myself, I’ve defensively shifted my damaged leg, as if any second I’m going to have to make another run for it.

“And I don’t know if you’ve been reading any of the lies the Daily Prophet has been printing recently…”

“Perhaps you mean about the ones about my being Voldemort’s willing little pet? I hate to tell you, Severus, but for once they happen to have got their facts right.”

“The Daily Prophet?” A flash of his characteristic anger resurfaces. “That scurrilous waste of ink? I doubt it. What’s printed there is usually the exact opposite of what really happened.”

“Well, that pretty much makes me the hero of the Wizarding World, then.” My words are heavy with sarcasm.

“More or less. Actually, why not? Yes, I think you’re a hero.” He lifts one eyebrow and looks at me challengingly.

I hadn’t meant to let him rile me like this. After all, what good would it do? But suddenly tonight, on my own turf, I find I won’t stand for it.

“I’m sorry, did I miss something? Haven’t you forgotten how I smashed somebody’s face in so I could be King of the Pack? Or perhaps the fantastic idea I had to create hundreds more werewolves? Two hundred and seven of them were _children_ \- hadn’t you heard? Or maybe it was the toadying up to Voldemort that slipped your mind. Funny, I distinctly remember you bursting in on us, just as we were sealing our union. Didn’t that make _any_ kind of an impression on you?”

“I haven’t forgotten anything. But you have.” Severus lifts up a small blue bottle, swirling with the ghosts of stoppered memories. “Because I took away your memory, although I’m not sorry I did it.”

He tips out a thin wisp of white. For a second it hovers above the liquid, as if nervous, then dives into the bowl with a tiny splash.

“Look into the Pensieve,” he says. “You deserve to know the truth.”

“What truth?”

“Look and find out.”

~~~

It’s dark again, and I’m falling hard and fast. The ground is rushing towards me and there’s no way that I’ll be able to stop in time and…

…and I’m in my bedroom, looking at myself. I’ve used Pensieves a few times before, but it’s still a decidedly odd experience. I’m trying to place the date from the clues around the room – a blanket on the bed that I no longer use, the state of my clothes, the books on the table. That I’m in this room at all means that I’m already pack leader.

An apparation-pop echoes in one dark corner of the room.

“Is that you?” my memory-self asks, turning around.

I can see the back of the memory-me’s head. I’m surprised at how much grey I have in my hair - even more than I realised, and - I don’t really have a bald spot, do I? Instinctively, I reach a hand around the back of my head to check. It’s hard to tell. I must get hold of a mirror when I get back.

“Remus!” Severus steps out into the candlelight.

“What is it?” I sound worried.

“We’ve found the last Horcrux. We’re going to have to move fast, sometime tomorrow. But there’s a problem – we think the Dark Lord’s onto us. We need a way of distracting him.”

Memory-me thinks, biting at his lip slowly. “I can think of something that might work. Fenrir’s supposed to report to him later today. I could go along as well and reveal the werewolves’ true numbers. That would definitely grab his attention. I could try to make that count for as long as possible.”

“If he gets you, he gets the werewolf pack. It’s risky. If it comes to a final battle after all, we’re done for.”

“Then Harry’s got to destroy that last Horcrux and kill Voldemort.”

Severus nods, then pauses. “That’s it, then. By tomorrow it’ll all be over, one way or another. Remus? This might be the last time I see you. I wanted to say… I know how it feels, stuck out here on your own, virtually abandoned by the rest of the Order. We appreciate… _I_ appreciate it. Everything you’ve done. I think it’s going to be enough.”

“I’m sure you know all about feeling unappreciated, Severus. _I’m_ not the one who’s a wanted criminal, with my mugshot in all the papers.” Memory-Remus grins widely.

“Thank you so much for the reminder. How very tactful.”

Memory-me starts to chortle and laugh. I don’t understand. Nothing funny happened. Nevertheless, the joke appears to be so infectious that within seconds Severus is joining in, smirking and making deep humphing noises which shake his whole body.

 _Why can’t I remember anything about all this? About Harry and the Horcruxes and trying to distract Voldemort? They seem like genuine Pensieve memories – except for the part where I’m on such good terms with Severus Snape. He’s calling me Remus, for Merlin’s sake! Laughing at my non-existent jokes! But why would he have made up memories about me? Why would he have done that?_

“You know, I’ve always… well…” memory-me is saying. “All those times I tried to be friendly with you before – why didn’t you…?” I don’t seem to be able to look Severus in the face.

“Perhaps it’s because we weren’t just about to die,” Severus replies. His voice is entirely serious.

I watch as Remus lifts up his eyes and catches Severus’ dark ones glinting at him across the room. Remus takes a tentative step forward, then another, then suddenly their mouths are on each other’s.

 _What? I stumble back from them, appalled. I can’t remember any of this! When did this happen? Don’t I get any say in what happens to me, even in memory?_

Remus and Severus are frantically kissing, tongues probing, hands groping each other’s bodies. Severus grabs memory-me’s arse and uses it to pull himself even closer, grinding his whole body against mine… _no, not mine… this is just a memory. I don’t even know if it’s real! I want out - get me out!_

“Bed,” manages the memory of me, gasping for air, his lips noticeably redder and his face flushed. They collapse on top of the blankets and immediately start fumbling with each other’s robes, trying to get them off. Severus has pushed my robes up my legs, all the way past my knees before I’ve managed to turn away, and I’m shouting at the dark empty ceiling.

 _“No! I don’t want to see this! Stop it now! LET ME OUT!”_

~~~

I’m back in the stillness of the forest, sitting on dry leaves, grateful to be on solid, real earth again. Several candles have been lit. Their warm, flickering glow comforts me in the gathering dusk.

“At least you know that you’re not a traitor now - without you there would have been no victory. The Dark Lord is destroyed, Lucius dead, all the rest of his servants killed or in prison. The plan would never have worked if you hadn’t been distracting the Dark Lord at the vital moment.” Severus watches me carefully. I’m not sure what he’s looking for.

“How could you possibly think it was a good idea to show me… all that… just…?”

“You won the war for us. How could I let you go on believing otherwise?”

“And the rest? Couldn’t you have - I don’t know - warned me?”

“I didn’t realise that I was so repulsive to you.”

I’m bewildered by the bitterness in his words. I scan his face and am shocked by what I find there.

“What? You can’t - you don’t mean this is all some kind of bizarre chat-up line?”

“No! Of course not! No!” A silence follows. “Perhaps,” he admits.

“Well, which is it?” I ask, although I’m not sure I want to know.

“I have been thinking that it would be a lot more convenient to brew the Wolfsbane here, and my other potions as well. It’s isolated and peaceful, just the way I like it. I could stay…”

“…with me? With hundreds of werewolves? Are you out of your mind, Severus? You wouldn’t last the first full moon.”

He stiffens, offended. “Is that what you think of me?”

“That you have a perfectly understandable fear of werewolves, yes, I do.”

He eyes me warily, and carefully unravels his long legs from underneath him, like an uncoiling spider. There’s a brief glimpse of pale ghostly skin and enough dark leg hair to coat a yeti, then he’s sitting in front of me, so close I can feel his breath. I don’t move.

“What you saw in the Pensieve – surely you don’t think that my behaviour looked like that of someone who was frightened of werewolves?” He waits for a response, his head slightly tilted.

“Haven’t you listened to a single thing I’ve said?” My shout blasts against his face. His eyelids flicker. “All right, it turns out that it was _all for the good of the Cause_ when I brown-nosed Voldemort so thoroughly that my dick ended up his arse. So what? I’ve destroyed hundreds of people’s lives, Severus, and they’re never going to get them back. I developed the bite rotas, I sent my teams of werewolves out with the sole purpose of finding and attacking Muggles and turning them into werewolves, _I_ did it, I did it all – what part of this are you finding so attractive?”

“You’re wrong. Dumbledore told you to develop the werewolves into an army.”

“What?”

“It wasn’t your plan - it was Dumbledore’s. I was there when the Order discussed it. We had to wipe that part of your memory as well. I don’t think he could ever have dreamt how successful you’d be. Far more than any of us could have imagined.”

I squeeze my eyes shut. Can’t he leave me _anything_ that’s my own? Just for a little while? Even the bad parts?

I jerk to my feet. Exactly at that moment Severus has inexplicably lunged at me, his sallow face looming. Moist, unfamiliar breath tingles on my lips. I have to shove him away with both hands.

“Just fuck off, won’t you!” I yell.

My breath is thumping at the base of my throat and churning through my head, and my brain doesn’t seem to work any more. I search for some polite nothings to stall him, to give me time to think.

“I’m sorry. No time to talk right now. I’m expected for the evening meal. They won’t start without me. You understand.”

“Of course,” he says, but there are flaming patches high on his cheekbones.

“Could you bring the Wolfsbane back tomorrow? It’s really not convenient now.”

Then I’ve turned my back on him and am striding away, running as fast as my injured leg will allow. The Pack House is glowing in the dusk like a warm beacon, drawing me in. I’ll have to make an appearance at dinner, of course, but as soon as I can I need to slip away, bar my door, to be alone.

A sudden panic rips through me. What if Severus is right?

If I didn’t have the guilt any more, what would I be left with? Would I be tempted to abandon my pack? I can’t imagine life without the daily struggle to make amends for my sins. The thought of my life’s fragile focus being stripped away so swiftly is absolutely terrifying. After today, what will there be left of the Remus John Lupin I thought I knew?

~~~

“Sir, Sir, come see what’s buried in the leaves! It’s a _thing_!”

Little Edgar runs up to me, stubby arms flailing, extraordinarily excited in the way that only very small children can be. I suspect a hedgehog, trying to find somewhere to hibernate, and warn him to beware of prickles.

The _thing_ turns out to be Severus Snape - wrapped in a cloak and a warming charm, burrowed into the leaf litter. He pokes one eye out.

“Wolfsbane doesn’t travel well, so I had to stay here. I _did_ try to inform you.”

Somewhere between the corners of my mouth and the inside of my chest, my surprise becomes a snort. It blooms into a full-blown, belly-hearted laugh, and I can’t help it, I’m suddenly bent over and shaking. Severus takes my mockery surprisingly well. His one visible eye is joined by the other, and then I distinctly hear the sound of him being amused, a sort of sarcastic ‘heh-heh-heh’.

Leaves scatter and flutter as he rises from his bed of earth, flapping his mud-smeared cloak in the early morning light.

“I take it _you_ had a good night’s sleep. You appear refreshed enough to find me wildly entertaining.”

“I thought you were a hedgehog!” I think I might be a little on edge; I can’t seem to stop laughing.

“I see. Of _course_ you did.”

He waits until I’ve got myself back under control.

“Severus?” I ask.

He looks up, expectantly.

“I want my memories back.”

~~~

“Out of my way, Lupin!”

“Sorry, Severus, I didn’t realise that I was in your way.”

His teaching robes swirl furiously as he snaps back towards me.

“And how is Dumbledore’s _pity case_ , the unemployed werewolf? Still missing your little friend, Black? What a pity that he had to be so _impetuous_.”

The background resolves – ugly, mildewed wallpaper and heavy mouldings - a memory from one of the Order meetings at Grimmauld Place.

He seizes one of my wrists between grasping, bony fingers, trying to squeeze some kind of response out of me. I stare impassively over his shoulder.

“You’re wasting your time, Severus. I won’t play your games.”

His dark eyes dart across my face, searching and puzzled.

“But what else could you possibly be good for?”

~~~

I’m waiting at the agreed meeting place. Twigs crack as he creeps out from behind a tree.

“Oh, it’s you, Severus. I was expecting Minerva.”

Leaves are in bud and woodland flowers burst out everywhere in little patches – it’s a lovely day, but he’s cowering behind the silver bark of a birch tree. He points at the crowds gathered around the Pack House.

“Lupin… are all those _werewolves_?”

I smile at him. “Well, we haven’t turned into Pet Puffskeins. What were you expecting?”

“I’d heard that you’d taken over the pack but not about _that_.”

My smile hardens.

“Yes, I’ve made some changes which have increased numbers.”

“Increased! That’s an understatement!”

“I think you were there when Dumbledore suggested it, the year before you killed him.” I manage not to emphasise the last two words.

“No, you misunderstand. For once in your life you’ve actually managed to impress me. This is very good work indeed.”

My smile disappears completely.

“I’m not sure that I’d call turning people into werewolves _good work_.”

He leaves the safety of the tree and sets one thin-fingered hand on my shoulder. His words are earnest and without any of their usual sarcasm.

“Never forget, Remus - there’s _nothing_ more important than killing the Dark Lord. That bastard is going to be blasted out of existence, if it takes a hundred thousand werewolves to do it.”

I lean back, and he lets his hand drop.

“I didn’t realise you took this all so personally,” I say.

“Don’t _you_? What about your friends that he’s murdered?”

“I’m just doing what I have to. Just following orders.”

“What makes you think that things are so different for me?” he replies. A grim look passes between us, a sudden understanding that I never wanted.

~~~

“You again? Isn’t it dangerous?”

“Obviously, I find the danger irresistibly thrilling.” The thin edge of his lips snakes upwards into what can only be a smirk.

“Stop joking, Severus. I know you could have sent Minerva.”

“Are you really so determined to stop me visiting? But how could I resist this mud-infested cesspit you call home?”

“I just don’t want your Death Eater _friends_ to miss you. Is it so hard to believe that I might be concerned?”

“Well then, Remus. We’ve established that we’re both _delighted_ to see each other. Shall we move onto our business now, before I really am missed? Or had you anything particular in mind that you wished to delay me with?”

His lips twitch again; I match his smirk with a small smile.

~~~

I’m back in the memory of my bedroom. This time it’s my decision to be here. I can stop whenever I want, although I want to know everything, everything that was taken away from me.

All the time that I’ve been watching us talk in the candlelight, the tension has been building. I knew that any moment now I’d be taking those few steps towards him - in fact, I’d almost be launching myself at him, desperately wanting contact with his mouth, and his tongue, and his skin and…

With him. With Severus Snape. It still seems very strange. I’m bracing myself for the still unfamiliar experience of watching myself _touch_ him. I know I’m about to kiss his thin lips, grind myself against him and tear at his clothing, frantic to grasp his pale, skinny, naked body. I think I know what’s coming – presumably, we’re going to have sex. I just hope I can handle it.

Oh – here it comes.

We’re crashing down onto the mattress again, attached to each other’s mouths, yanking buttons, impatient for more access. He breaks away to reach one long hand down and grab the edge of my battered robe, pulling it up past my knees with one swift tug. I grunt my encouragement, lifting my hips so that he can hoist it further, up past my stiff, eager cock which twitches as the fabric brushes it on the way past.

“ _Ahhh,_ ” he says, and there’s a smile to his voice. His dark head bobs down between my legs to take me into his mouth.

 _Before I realise it, I’ve flinched and my head has twisted to the side, trying to avoid the sight. Malfoy’s white hair flashes before me, bending between my legs, sucking… No! That was a different place, a different time, a different person… I’ve obviously chosen to be here with Severus. This is not the same thing at all. Even though I may not remember it, this is my past and it belongs to me. I want to know everything; I deserve to know it all. I open my eyes and look again._

Severus is still down by my crotch. His lips stretch around my prick as he works his mouth up and down. It’s a very odd sight from this angle, but I seem to be enjoying it. My head has tipped back. My whole body is stretching long and luxuriously with pleasure.

Severus takes hold of my bollocks and starts to roll them slowly in one hand.

“Mmmmmm!” I sigh, starting to babble somewhat incoherently. _“Mmmmblubleblublublmbull!”_

He stops for a second, anxious dark eyebrows pulling together. “Something wrong?”

“No, no no! _No!_ Come back up here.” My grin looks decidedly specific, as though I have something in mind.

He crawls up the bed. I immediately take advantage of his awkward position to make a grab for _his_ robes, working them right over his upturned arse. As the fabric pulls out from underneath his knees, he slips and falls over into the bedclothes with a muffled thud and an unlikely snort of glee. Then he’s on top of me, bare arse to the air. Our naked, waving pricks finally connect as our bodies crush together. We both groan at the sensation of skin on fantastically sensitive skin. We’re kissing again, but it’s lost in the inky mess of his hair spilling over the pillow, over my face.

He starts wriggling like crazy on top of me; from his long, lean back all the way down to his slim-hipped arse, which my hands are groping enthusiastically. It’s as if the spirit of a horny eel has taken over his soul.

Then, suddenly I’ve tipped the balance. Our bodies roll over so that it’s my naked arse now in the air. I pin him down by sitting wide across his legs. He’s surprised at the change of pace. There’s a wild and reckless look about me.

“More naked!” I shout. I sound so incredibly happy.

Severus’ surprised look turns into a grin, hidden in the shadow of his great hooked nose but flashing through his eyes. We’re soon both fiddling with our remaining buttons. I finish first and sling my robe onto the floor.

“Huh!” He has given up unbuttoning and is ripping the fabric around the top few buttons apart. “Damned stupid…!”

I can see memory-me trying not to laugh in case it provokes Severus into seriously losing his temper. The corner of my mouth keeps twitching in suppressed amusement. I carefully lean forward. Severus allows me to help with the final buttons, but when it comes to taking the whole robe off, he impatiently bats my hands away.

“Did I ever tell you how incredibly sexy you are when you’re angry at buttons?”

Severus looks down memory-me’s body. His gaze comes to rest on my still-extended prick.

“Indeed.”

I lean into the wilderness of Severus’ thick dark chest hair for another long snog. By the end of it, both of us have rolled onto our side so that we’re facing each other. Severus’ prick is long and thin, except for the magnificently globular head, and the whole of it curves distinctly to one side. I reach for it, grasp it firmly, and hold it next to mine. Both pricks rub their silky hotness against each other. Severus groans close to my ear.

I pull once, clumsily, both our pricks in my hand. It’s enough to send us spinning. Each of us exhales heavily at the same time as my roughly performed stroke. Severus puts his hand around mine and around our joined pricks. Twinges thump through my balls as his hand touches me, touches my prick, rubs our pricks together. _Oh god, yes._ And in there is the memory of what he just did with his mouth. That was pretty good as well. There’s also his arse. I’m dizzy thinking about what I want to do to his arse.

“Remus?” His voice is low, the air in his lungs hardly enough for speech. “Have you got anything? Any oil?”

“Damn. I don’t usually… let me think.” I break away to sit up and scan the room. I never use anything to wank with, all the cooking oil is in the kitchen and…

“Let me.”

He retrieves his wand, deftly taps it against his palm and recites _Oleo_. That half-glance he send me while the gloopy substance trickles from the tip – it’s sending shivers of excitement all over my body. I don’t know exactly who’s going to do what with this oil, but I know I’m going to enjoy it.

He sets down the wand with almost undue care before turning back to me. Is he nervous? Because suddenly, I am. Very.

“Do you want to…?” he asks, kneeling on the bed and holding out his oily hand.

“I thought you…” I reply, unsure of exactly what he’s asking.

I edge closer to him again and peel back one side of that curtain of dark hair, kissing along his great nose, his cheek, his chin. I finally reach those thin red pliable lips. His hot sharp tongue steals out to meet mine, reminding me again of those things he did to my prick. When he was down there, I felt his tongue swirling all around the head of my – hold on, this is all wrong. The longer we kiss, the tenser Severus is becoming. He’s holding his oil-covered hand like a barrier between us.

Oh, bloody hell. I _do_ want to oil myself up and plunge into his arse. But I’m not averse to having his prick inside me either. Just as long as we just do _something._ We don’t have that much time.

I find his outstretched hand, dip my fingers in, scoop up as much oil as I can and smear it all over his ceiling-pointing prick. It pulses slightly and appreciatively under my touch. Almost reluctantly, he pulls in a long, quavering breath of pleasure. Then, narrowing his eyes, he notes the location of my prick, and before I know it he’s covered it firmly and thoroughly with the remainder of the oil on his hand. He stares straight into my eyes, fiercely, in blatant challenge. This is absolutely bizarre. I get the distinct feeling he’s just turned this into some kind of contest.

“Severus…” I begin, but just give up.

I move over to his kneeling body and place one hand on his rigid shoulder so that I can kiss him again. At first he’s unyielding, his lips firmly closed. I tickle the corner of his mouth with the tip of my tongue and he develops an infinitesimal smirk. He opens his mouth and he lets me in.

I take his oil-slicked hand gently in mine and guide it to my prick, moaning at the touch of his fingers. I place mine on his. We fall sideways to the mattress again with a thump. Our hands slip and slide over each other’s bodies. This time we have extra lubrication and it feels even better. Our bodies are warm and entangled.

I move my hand along the length of his prick. He immediately follows suit. Oh, that feels _good_. It’s hard to keep concentrating on him; he’s pulling such exquisite jolts out of my balls with every stroke. I’m taking in great huffs of breath as his hand works up and down my length. It’s incredible but I want even more. I need him to touch me more. We try to kiss again, and just settle for gasping into each other’s mouths. The movements of his hand become increasingly desperate; I shift my rhythm around his slickened prick.

“Remus! Yes! Just that! Keep doing that!” pants Severus. His nose is pressed into the side of my face.

 _Oh God, I’m going to make him come._ With every spurt, his prick will throb and twitch and I’ll feel every last drop as it rushes out of him, holding his prick in my hand, because I’ll have made it happen. I bury my head into the side of his neck.

“Severus, I’m going to…”

His hand speeds up, if that’s possible. His fingers are like a wonderful blur, encircling me deep and swift and sure, pulling the pleasure right out of me. I grab him by the hips as the first twisting slices of my orgasm hit. It’s so incredibly strong. I can’t remember it ever being like this before. My deepest muscles contract, shoot and pulsate as if they’re never going to stop… then, all too soon, it’s over. All that’s left is the tingle of afterglow zinging up and down my legs and stomach, and the knowledge that I cannot possibly do anything for at least an hour. No way. I’ve been all wrung out and left to dry.

Oh, right. Those meaningful, expectant looks – of course, Severus hasn’t come yet. Damn. It looks like I’m going to have to move after all. My muscles protest but I lean back over.

Severus gasps when I reach for his impatient prick again. He moans and leans his body slightly into mine when my hand starts to move, sliding and whispering over his smooth skin. I try to find the rhythm again; I really wish I wasn’t so tired now. All those expressions Severus is pulling are really fascinating. I could watch them forever. Ah, that’s the right motion now - Severus has furrowed his forehead and he’s letting his mouth hang open.

“Ah!” he says. “Ah! Ah! _Ahhhhh!_ ”

Ah, there he goes. Good job. Now he’s happy too. I think I’ll just have a little sleep now, just five minutes…

~~~

Severus is lying on his side. The welcome warmth of his head is heavy on my right arm. The rest of his thin, awkward body is curled up underneath him. Even his narrow fingers are clenched into his hands and folded beneath his neck, just under the jut of his Adam’s apple. A stray strand of his long black hair tickles at my nose; I fuuft it away, then re-adjust my arm around his bony back. Thoughts pass like clouds across his face. I watch them.

“What is it?” I ask.

“What do you mean?”

“You’re thinking. It’s making a ridge between your eyebrows.”

His thin lips twitch momentarily to one side before he answers.

“Remus, the Dark Lord is a superb Legilimens, and with all respect, a lightly grilled kipper would be better at Occlumency than you are.”

“Ah. But I thought you said it was a good idea that I go off to distract Voldemort.”

“Yes, it is. But we’re going to have to modify your mind first.”

“You mean a Memory Charm?”

“No, of course not, that can be broken. Something a bit stronger; it consists of three incantations and some mental suggestion. Remus, you’re not going to like it.”

“Well, I think I’d guessed that part already.” I roll over, disengaging my arm, steeling myself for what is to come. “What time is it? How long do I have left?”

“It’s half an hour before sunrise. We’d better do it now. Remus, I - I’m sorry.” He gets up, walks over to the other side of the bed and kneels so that he can kiss me gently. As his lips withdraw, I feel mine cool in the early morning air.

“Severus?” I say. “Thank you. For everything.”

He nods back at me, then picks up his wand and silently sends a message out into the darkness. I lie stiffly on the bed, bracing myself. He turns around to face me and I close my eyes.

The first shock of bright blue light slams into the back of my skull.

~~~

“Remus, Remus? Are you awake?”

“Wha…? Where am…? What are _you_ doing here? Why does my head hurt?”

“Listen, Remus. Today, at two o’clock, it’s vital that you go to meet the Dark Lord.”

“Oh, sure. At two o’clock. Just in time for afternoon tea. Absolutely. No problem at all. Hey… why are you _naked_? Why am _I_ naked? Did we… ? No! Oh Merlin, please tell me that we didn’t…!”

“Oh, honestly!” Severus recovers his robe, the fabric around the top buttons somewhat torn, and throws it back on over his head.

“No, really, what’s happening?” I grope for the bedclothes, bewildered, but can’t find them. Why are my blankets all over the floor?

“Remus. Just listen to me. You will remember this. Today you have a meeting with the Dark Lord.” He sounds tired, as if he’s already said this a dozen times. “You want to talk to him about… Werewolf Rights. Yes, that’s it. The Dark Lord is enthusiastic to adopt the cause of Werewolf Rights and today you must meet with him about it.”

“Severus? You can stop it now, honestly, whatever it is. I give up. You win. Do you hear me? I said you’ve won.”

He takes a deep breath, his shoulders raising and dropping with a jerky twitch, then lifts his wand and points it straight towards me, right between my eyes. Before the blue light drowns me once again, drenching the whole room in forgetfulness, my baffled face pulls into a scrunch and I ask one last question.

 _“Severus, why?”_

~~~

I’ve returned to the real world, but everything looks different. It’s as if I’m seeing everything from one step sideways, and I wonder how I ever could have been so blind.

Not only the times I spent with Severus, but all my recent meetings with the Order had been hacked and stripped right out of my life. My friendships with Minerva, with Bill, with Tonks, with everyone else – they’re all suddenly flooding back. Dumbledore’s kind concern in deserted corridors, memories of Molly making the tea, but most of all – Sirius. Sirius slouching over the table, Sirius grooming Buckbeak, Sirius talking with Harry… for God’s sake, _Padfoot_! How could I have forgotten him, even under the strongest hex?

So much time has passed since I stuck my head into the Pensieve that the sun has climbed its way high into the sky and is blazing in patches onto the fallen leaves. I find the dazzling new light almost too intense for comfort.

Severus is looking at me keenly, his eyes unblinking. For the first time I notice the rings under his eyes, his bitten nails, the unmended tear on the sleeve of his robe. He looks a lot worse now than he did in memory – but then again, so do I. Everything was flattering by candlelight; those lines around my eyes melting away, even his sun-starved skin took on some warmth by the glow of a candle.

Neither of us is willing to make the first move, to say anything that will break the uneasy silence between us. His hands keep edging forward, hesitating, and then retreating back into the long black cuffs of his robes.

“Remus. How are you feeling?”

For so many years I’ve been so used to hearing harsh sarcasm in his voice, not kind concern. It’s slightly unsettling.

What can I say? Like everything I ever knew is wrong? I feel like I’ve been fucked over royally by both sides? More than that, like someone who _agreed_ to be fucked over, every step of the way? And said thank you _kindly_ , please do it some more? What kind of person would even do that?

“I’m not sure.” I settle for that.

“It’ll take some time to get used to,” he agrees, nodding, again being astonishingly nice.

Or perhaps he’s just being polite because he wants to get off with me again, like in the memory. He admitted as much earlier, just before he made that strange lunge towards me. I suppose I should be upfront now and save him hanging around for nothing. I take a deep breath and just get it over with.

“Severus, you don’t have to be nice to me any more. I don’t want to sleep with you.”

His eyebrows squeeze together in a gesture of distress, just for a moment. Then one dark heavy brow lifts in an almost overdone display of nonchalance.

“Well, that’s a relief.”

“I’m sorry, Severus, really I am.”

“Obviously.”

There’s an awkward silence.

And I _am_ sorry, I really am. I’ve always been inexplicably attracted to him, just a little, only from a distance, one of those things that was far too wrong to ever really happen. I mean, I’ve just seen these memories of us together - joking, talking, laughing, even in bed - but I don’t think any of that was really me. How can it have been me if I can’t remember doing any of these things and had to be reminded by a Pensieve that the events even existed?

Thinking about it makes my head ache, it reminds me of what I did with Voldemort and Lucius and I… I can’t begin to make sense of it all yet.

“Severus, why did you do all this? Keep all of my memories and bring them back to show me?”

He mumbles.

“Sorry?”

“So that I could get a shag out of it. Isn’t that what you seem to think?”

“I said I was sorry, Severus.”

Another silence.

“I’ll tell you _why_. Because everyone, including yourself, seems to have labelled you a monster and a traitor and all the rest of the Order are too cowardly to admit the truth after they saw you with Voldemort. I kept the memories to protect you, and myself as well, I’ll admit it, but I’m showing you them now because I can’t stand you wallowing in your own stupid guilt. And, yes, I was idiotic enough to look at the memories just before I came here and obviously it gave me some even more idiotic ideas. Satisfied?”

I think for a moment. “Yes. Thank you, Severus.”

“Fuck off.”

Damn. How can one caustic expletive from him leave me smiling like that? Is it the way he says it? I try to turn away, but he catches me grinning. Visibly encouraged, he steeples his hands as if about to deliver a lecture.

“Remus, I meant what I said about the Wolfsbane. The Ministry just awarded me the contract. I made the first batch at home, but seeing as there are over four hundred werewolves, and Wolfsbane doesn’t take kindly to apparition, it really would be better if I had my workshop nearby.”

“Sever…”

“…I know you don’t think it’s a good idea, but I can have my brewing finished up and apparate away for full moon if you think I won’t be able to tolerate you… it. I can go to the Leaky Cauldron or wherever.”

Well, I suppose they’ve had stranger customers. Even the odd crone or ogre doesn’t seem to affect their business much.

“All right,” I say.

“What?”

“Yes, brew the Wolfsbane here. Yes, come and live with us. Yes, I think you shouldn’t hang around for the full moon, at least not at the start.”

“Good.” He stands up, a dark silhouette against the glare of the full sunlight, brushing fragments of golden leaves from the hem of his robe. “Let’s shake on it, then.” He sticks out an arm.

His warm, thin hand clasps mine for just a few seconds longer than absolutely necessary. In my turn, I look into his dark, expressive eyes for just a moment more than convention normally allows. We both break away, dropping hands and breaking eye contact; the moment is gone forever.

It doesn’t matter. We have so much time ahead of us in which to make all the new memories we could ever want.

 

*****


End file.
